The Marathon Watch Page 8

  “How?”

  “I don’t remember much. I was pretty well out of it, but from what the other guys told me, well, we had this crazy gunnery officer. Don’t remember his name, but he was a fiery red-headed Irishman who was always raising hell about something. Well, this crazy Irishman has his gunnery crews stack ammo on the deck like cordwood. The Japs must have written us off ‘cause this one Jap destroyer comes flying past us at point-blank range. We opened fire, hit her magazine, and she went down like a rock. Guess the Japs couldn’t figure out what happened ‘cause we opened fire on the other destroyer and got that one too. Then this crazy Irishman starts shooting at the cruiser. The man was absolutely nuts. They said he’d have gotten the cruiser, but the gun mounts started flooding. The Able never struck her colors. She never gave up.”

  “Like us?” Stucky asked.

  “We haven’t given up; we just gotta be careful about which battles we pick,” Ross said.

  “When I came aboard a year ago, stuff worked, not like it is now,” Stucky said.

  “Yeah,” Ross began. “I came aboard just before you, and we had a damn good engine room, almost as good as the Able’s. Then the Navy went crazy, transferred most of the senior petty officers, and the supply system lost our address. You can only fix stuff with baling wire and chewing gum for so long. If we could get just half of the parts we asked for, this would be a pretty good engine room.”

  “So, Chief, what happened?”

  “Hell if I know. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be; it’s not part of the deal, and this ain’t my navy anymore. In eleven more months, I’ll have my thirty years in, and I can retire.”

  §

  Ross looked up and saw an officer step from the shadows by the starboard escape ladder. Ross didn’t recognize him, but from the glint of silver on his collar, Ross knew he was a lieutenant junior grade. As the man stepped into the light, his face mesmerized Ross. He looked oriental with short black hair that framed a young, friendly face. His eyes were clear, lively, and the blackest he’d ever seen. The man looked like he was smiling, but Ross sensed he wasn’t smiling; it just looked that way. The man’s circular face made Ross think of a “happy day” sticker with a smiley face printed in black ink. Ross shook the image off and took in the rest of the man. He was short; Ross had seen taller bollards.

  The men scrambled to their feet, but Ross remained seated until the officer spoke. “You must be Chief Ross. I’m Mister Lee, the new engineering officer.”

  Ross stood, stuffed the screwdriver into his hip pocket, and extended his hand. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Lee’s face. He didn’t know if it was the eyes or the smile, but then again, the entire face was a smile; even his eyes were smiling.

  “Glad to meet you, Mister Lee.”

  Ross thought he saw some change in Lee’s perpetual grin and felt that Lee was now smiling on purpose. Lee’s eyes twinkled intelligence. That bothered Ross; young officers were always hard to break in, and the smarter they were, the harder the job became. Even the best officers had a lot to learn, and Ross had lost his appetite for teaching. He had no desire to break in another kid, not here, not now. “Well, welcome aboard,” Ross said only to be polite.

  Lee turned to look at the gauge board, then swept his eyes around the engine room. “Looks pretty complicated, Chief.” Lee walked over to the railing behind Ross’ bench and looked down toward the lower level. “What’s that?” Lee asked.

  Ross tried to see what Lee was looking at. “What’s what?”

  “That,” Lee said, pointing to Elmo, dancing around a crumb. “First roach I ever seen with paint on its back.”

  Ross smiled. “That’s Petty Officer Third Class Elmo Cockroach. He’s the engine room mascot.”

  Lee’s response was silence, and it surprised Ross. Lee’s eyes probed at Ross, and their steady penetration made Ross uncomfortable.

  Lee turned to face the gauge board. The other men had vanished. Ross watched Lee’s eyes. He looked like a wide-eyed kid who had just discovered his first caterpillar. Ross had seen the look before and knew this kid was going to be a real pain.

  “Are you busy now, Chief?” Lee asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Would you mind giving me a quick tour?”

  Ross minded. “It’s late. We can do that tomorrow. You need some time to rest and get bunked down.”

  “Already done, and I’m wide awake. My body still thinks it’s afternoon. Chief, I’d appreciate a quick tour.”

  Ross guessed this wouldn’t end until Lee got his tour. Resigned, Ross replied, “Well, okay.” He’d known it; the kid was going to be a pain. He would have to wear Lee out, break him in quick, teach him what the Farnley was all about.

  “Let’s start right here,” Ross said. “This here’s your gauge board. You have two vacuum and two steam gauges. One of your steam gauges is broken. Been waiting for parts for six months.”

  “All the gauges are PSIG, not absolute, right?” Lee asked.

  The question surprised Ross; Lee had done his homework. “That’s right. None of these gauges are absolute. Under the gauge board you got your four throttle valves, two for each engine. The big one’s the ahead throttle, the small one’s the astern throttle.”

  “Why do you keep saying ‘your,’ Chief?”

  The question came sooner than Ross had expected. “Well, you’re the new engineering officer, aren’t you?”

  Lee nodded.

  “Then all this is yours. You own it and—” Ross was cut short by the same penetrating gaze he’d seen before. Lee’s eyes had lost their sparkle, but he still had that crazy grin spread across his face. Ross couldn’t pin it down. Lee wasn’t judging him, but the look embarrassed Ross.

  For the next two hours, Ross led Lee through the engine room and the two boiler rooms, pointing out equipment and introducing Lee to the men on watch. Lee’s curiosity surprised Ross. Lee was interested in everything and wanted to know something about everything. When Ross tried to bypass a section, Lee would veer down a catwalk, pointing and asking questions.

  Ross knew he couldn’t do anything about Lee’s curiosity and settled into the routine. At every opportunity, Ross began his explanation, “That’s your… and it’s broke… been waiting for parts for…” He hoped Lee would get the idea.

  Lee listened intently, but the words had no visible effect. Ross also tested Lee by stopping in places that would force Lee to stand in the steam plumes from the Farnley’s numerous steam leaks. Lee, drenched in sweat, didn’t give any sign that he noticed. Instead, he kept asking questions, lots of good questions.

  As the tour ended, Ross said with relief, “That’s it, Mister Lee. You’ve seen it all.”

  “You must have good men, Chief,” Lee said while mopping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “This place is like Dante’s Inferno.”

  Ross smiled at the greasy black streak Lee had just spread across his brow. Lee looked puzzled for a second, then looked at his greasy hands. “And the Black Hole of Calcutta,” Lee added.

  Ross looked at his watch; it was past ten. “Yes, sir, Mister Lee, and it’s all your’n.”

  “Funny, Chief, it all looked like a hole full of shit to me,” Lee replied.

  Ross’ head jerked around to meet Lee’s gaze. Lee had hit a long-dormant nerve, and the anger that exploded in his gut surprised Ross. Ross looked deep into Lee’s firm but tranquil eyes. He could see no malice nor judgment there. Lee wasn’t being cute nor threatening. Lee’s happy-looking face unnerved Ross, but neither man broke eye contact. Ross tried to stare Lee down, but it was no use. Lee’s black, piercing eyes showed only honest interest. Lee wasn’t trying to compete. He’s just stating the obvious truth in a rather blunt way, Ross decided. Nothing to get upset about.

  Lee broke the silence. “Chief, do the men always wear their oldest uniforms down here?”

  Lee’s questions no longer surprised Ross. “No, for some of them, what you saw was their newest uniforms. There�
��s only one place in the Med to get uniforms, and that’s here in Naples. Here we are, and the captain canceled liberty,” Ross replied, letting the anger drain out with his words.

  Lee’s face brightened. “So that’s why all the long faces.”

  Ross thought about that statement for a second. Sooner or later, he would have to make his position clear to Lee. It might as well be now. “That’s only a small part of it; it’s the Farnley. They’re like everyone else here, including you. We’re all just serving out our sentences; doing our time.” Ross watched carefully for a reaction. There was none.

  “What about the haircuts?”

  “No ship’s barber,” Ross snapped back at his unflappable enigma.

  “It’s late now, but could you spend some time with me tomorrow and fill me in on the supply problems?”

  “Sure,” Ross said, surprising himself by his answer.

  “One more question, Chief. Did you show me all the known steam leaks?”

  Ross blushed a little. “Not all of them.”

  “Then you’ll have to show me the rest tomorrow.”

  “Can’t. The rest only show up when we’re using the engines.” Ross couldn’t believe he was almost laughing. Lee was one savvy kid.

  Lee’s eyes gleamed, and Ross guessed he was smiling again. “Well, once we get under way, you can show them to me. Good night, and thanks for your time.” Lee headed for the ladder.

  Ross, fingering the screwdriver in his hip pocket, watched Lee climb the ladder. A greasy sailor stepped around the boiler casing and asked, “Who was that, Chief?”

  “That’s the new engineering officer. His name’s Lee,” Ross answered.

  “Does he always look so happy?”

  “Don’t know, but a shit-eatin’ grin’s normal for him.”

  “He looks like he’s always up to something. Couldn’t play poker with him; it’d drive me nuts.”

  “You’re telling me,” Ross said.

  “Is he going to be trouble, Chief?”

  “Just until the Farnley breaks him. So far, she’s broke everybody.”

  “Will he break?”

  Ross’ eyes darted around for a second in thought. “Don’t know.”

  Ross couldn’t decide if he liked Lee. Something deep inside him hated Lee. He didn’t understand it and knew it was hatefully irrational. Lee appeared eager, bright, intelligent, and likeable. Ross wanted to do his time and get out. Lee was a man who cared.

  §

  In Norfolk, VA, O’Toole sat patiently on a small raised platform set beneath a white canvas awning on the Wainwright’s fantail. This change-of-command ceremony had produced the usual splitting headache. The only thing he liked less than a change-of-command ceremony was a splitting headache. He wondered if there was a connection.

  O’Toole looked at the assembled officers and senior petty officers of DESRON 23. Over the past week, he’d climbed through every hole in each of the six ships of the squadron, ostensibly to check material conditions. Actually, he wanted to meet the men, and had spoken with most of the men assembled on the fantail.

  O’Toole thought the situation a little ridiculous. The Wainwright’s fantail wasn’t large enough for the hundred-plus men it held, and the result looked more like an organized mob scene than a formation. O’Toole remembered how it had been for him when, as junior officer, he had had to attend similar ceremonies. He still thought these ceremonies were chicken shit.

  The men, in their dress white uniforms, stood at attention in the blistering sun and pretended to listen with interest to the words of Commodore Fosner, who was speaking from the bunting-draped podium. Fosner had been droning on about what a great honor it had been for him to be their commodore for the past two years. O’Toole had heard it all before, but out of respect for the men and Fosner, he did his best to pay attention.

  When Commodore Fosner completed his address, O’Toole stepped to the podium and, with a salute, completed the ritual of relieving Fosner as Commodore. With the ceremony done, Fosner walked away and O’Toole stepped to the podium. He didn’t speak immediately; he knew first impressions were important.

  In the past few seconds, their relationship had changed, but not in the way the men expected. They were now his students, and he would become their teacher. By the look in their eyes, O’Toole knew his reputation had preceded him. They expected him to rant about equipment, maintenance, tarnished brass, and poorly shined shoes. Instead, he would teach the officers to think, be resourceful, and lead. He would use his Irish temperament and gravel-pit voice to deliver each carefully crafted lesson.

  O’Toole understood only too well what most of the men were too young to know. In combat, the enemy is the greatest teacher. The lessons, written in the blood of young men, teach the officers to lead, gamble, dare, and not only think, but do the impossible. O’Toole would give the officers the sum total of his battle experience so perhaps fewer young men would have to make the ultimate sacrifice.

  O’Toole also knew from experience and years of scholarly research that all decisive naval battles were fought close to shore over sea-lane choke points or strategic land masses. Those battles were won by those with the greatest skill in green-water tactics, and by those who could make the night their own, a storm their friend, shoal water their home, and tight channels their lair. The men of his new squadron were blue-water sailors, and he would change that.

  He would be their enemy. He would do the unexpected and challenge them until they understood that the word impossible was a self-imposed limit. Pride, teamwork, and ingenuity would mold them into an enviable battle-ready unit. He would do nothing directly. They would do it all themselves, and the spit and polish would take care of itself. When that happened, they would meet his standards of excellence. Then and only then would he call them adequate. At that moment of his surrender, he would secretly rejoice with them in their victory.

  It had been easy for him to evaluate these men. They were not only good; they were the best he’d ever seen. Inside, his nerves bristled. He was unsure he was good enough to be their teacher.

  As he looked into their faces, he forced himself to concentrate so his outward appearance would be right. He imagined himself a stone statue, cold, hard, and ever serene. He held his six-foot, barrel-chested frame mainmast straight. A lifetime of exposure to wind, sun, and sea had left his skin permanently sunburnt and had turned his once-friendly face into a hardened, leathery mask. The lines in his face were deep with experience, and his sea-dog face was intimidating. His looks, like his gravelly voice, were tools of the trade.

  O’Toole glared at the captains of the six squadron ships standing directly in front of the podium. It was time for their first lesson; the enemy is unpredictable.

  O’Toole stooped slightly to reach the microphone and spoke in a low voice that sounded like a threatening growl. “I don’t know why you’re standing here in your dress uniforms. In exactly…” O’Toole paused to look at his watch, “three hours and eighteen minutes, this squadron will sortie for a three-day training cruise. Captains, I expect your sea readiness reports within the hour.”

  O’Toole didn’t wait to examine the wide eyes and the stunned, mouth-agape stares of the men. The process had begun again. This was his home. Finished, he turned, calmly strolled off the podium, and headed for his quarters. He deliberately didn’t walk too fast. He could hear the commotion on the fantail and the buzz of a hundred voices filled with disbelief.

  “He can’t do that. It’s impossible. It takes six hours to prepare a ship for sea.”

  “You mean it used to take six hours.”

  O’Toole smiled to himself. He knew they could do it in less than ten minutes. They didn’t know that yet, but one lesson at a time.

  O’Toole was barely off the fantail when someone called his name. It never failed. It was time for lesson number two. O’Toole turned slowly to face the six squadron captains chasing him. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Commodore, it takes six hours to get a s
hip ready for sea. There’s no way we can be ready in three.” It was John Flannery, the newest and the junior skipper in the squadron. O’Toole liked that, Flannery had something on his mind and was saying it. Flannery wasn’t going to take a backseat to anyone.

  “Oh, why is that?” O’Toole asked.

  “BUSHIPS regulations require a six-hour gradual heating of the boilers.”

  O’Toole scratched his head, pretending to be perplexed. “We certainly wouldn’t want to violate any regulations, would we? Guess it would be better to play it safe. Guess we should run this squadron by the book, right?”

  All nodded agreement.

  “Tell me, Captain Flannery,” O’Toole began, “how important is training for a peacetime navy?”

  “Very important. It’s one of our primary missions.”

  “Why?” O’Toole probed.

  “To prepare for war,” Flannery answered correctly.

  “Why?” O’Toole repeated in the same soft voice.

  Flannery didn’t answer.

  O’Toole let the growl in his voice start from his stomach and work its way up. “I’ll tell you why. It’s so men like you and I don’t lose ships and good men because we made stupid mistakes or played it safe. It’s so we don’t have to write letters home to bereaved mothers. We’re under way in three hours.” O’Toole looked at his watch. “And twelve minutes.”

  O’Toole started to leave, but Flannery persisted. “What about the BUSHIPS regulations?”

  “Regulations written by a bean-counting desk jockey who never had to stand a ship in harm’s way or face muzzle-to-muzzle combat. Regulations guaranteed to produce the longest boiler life. The only lives I’m concerned about are those of your crews. I’ve used my judgment. I’ve just suspended the regulations. If you live by the book, your enemy will bury you with it.

  “In war, you would push your ship and men to their bitter limits. You and your men don’t know your real limits because of a bunch of land-locked, cost-conscious GS-13s wrote some idiotic regulations. By the time you learned the limits, good men would be dead. That’s wholly inadequate. You’ll learn those limits now.